


Through Rubble and Dust We Walk

by Rae666



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Children, Fate, Friendship, Gen, Kid Fic, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rae666/pseuds/Rae666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten year old John Watson is evacuated to Surrey during the height of World War II, and whilst there he meets a strange, dark-haired boy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Rubble and Dust We Walk

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story was written for the Save Undershaw book that is due to be published shortly. Sadly, I didn't win so I decided to post the story here instead. That's not to say that it isn't a great project - so, if you're interested in supporting it or finding out more, just type 'save undershaw' into google. Also, the book is available for preorder from Amazon and if you search for Sherlock's Home: The Empty House, you'll be able to find it.
> 
> In additonal news, the story I wrote for a Sherlock fanzine will be available soon. You can preorder a copy now though if you wish and I will be posting a small excerpt from my story soon. The website for this fanzine is: www(dot)pyramidspress(dot)com(slash)shbbs(dot)html
> 
> Disclaimer: As always, I make no money from any of my fanfic writing and only hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

London wasn't safe. At least that's what everyone said. The air raid sirens were going off more often, their wailing an eerie echo in the night air, and the bombs, each time they fell, they took more people with them. The skies were aflame and thick with smoke each night, and the novelty of spotting airplanes and gathering shrapnel had long worn off.

It wasn't that ten year old John Watson didn't want to leave London, not after that night when the bomb had landed in old Mr Fisher's house down the road. The whole street had shaken, and John had felt the heat from the flames and heard the cries of neighbours he knew well as his mother dragged him away to one of the shelters nearby. But with his father away, it was _his_ job to look after his mother. He couldn't do that if she was in London and he was in Surrey at his Aunt Maggie's home.

There had been tears in her eyes when she had cupped his face at the train station and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"Be brave," she had told him, then the whistle had blown and he had been shuffled along with the crowd until he was trapped inside the train with faces he didn't know or recognise.

Still, Surrey wasn't all that bad. Aunt Maggie was nice and she would share her secret stash of chocolate with John right before bed. Of course, she always said, Uncle George wasn't to know. And Uncle George, he had a bicycle. It was a little rusty, but that didn't stop the gleam in John's eyes when he had been told it was now his, for as long as he was there.

The afternoon sun beat down on John as he hobbled back toward his Aunt's home. He used the bike as a crutch; though with the front wheel now bent the way it was, it became increasingly difficult to steer along the dirt road. Blood trickled from his knee and down his leg, and he cringed – not at the pain, but at what his aunt would say about the state of his clothes.

Still, his body buzzed and his head span. In London, the fastest you could go on a bicycle was however fast you could peddle. But with the hills of the countryside, you felt like you were flying. In fact, John had been sure he was, until he had been brought back down to earth with a clatter and a thump.

The thrill lingered though, as did the smile on his face and the laughter in his eyes. It was still there when he saw the boy up ahead, sitting crossed legged on a wall, a book in his lap and his head rested in his hands. He appeared no older than seven or eight, but the look he bore on his features was one of someone much older and wiser.

"Hello!" John called out.

The boy showed no sign of hearing him, his eyes still focused on the book.

John pushed himself forward, diverting a little from the road to move toward the boy.

"Hello there," he repeated, voice losing no cheer.

The boy twitched this time and readjusted himself, but said nothing. It wasn't until John came to a stop before him that he raised his head to not look at John, but glare.

"What you reading?" John asked, pushing down the kickstand of the bicycle with his uninjured leg before adjusting the box at his side which held his gas mask. His mother had made him promise to keep it on him at all times and John did, even though everything in the small village was a contrast to London – including the air.

At first, the boy said nothing. Bright blue eyes moved over John, and thin lips thinned even further. For a moment, John thought the boy would disregard him and continue reading his book as if John were nothing more than a distraction he could do without.

"London is that way," the boy said eventually, hitching a thumb over his shoulder in the direction John imagined to be north.

Brow burrowing, John cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know I'm from London?"

The boy raised his eyebrow in a manner that suggested the answer to that question was obvious.

"Where else would you be from?" the boy asked.

At that, John smiled and nodded. "So just a guess."

Bright blue eyes rolled in their sockets and the boy let go of an irritated huff. "I have no need for guessing."

"But you just..."

John never got to finish his sentence, the clap of the book interrupting him as the boy closed it to look John over once more.

"You're obviously not from here. Your bottom lip is bleeding and your bicycle frame is twisted. The only place to do something like that is the hill up the road and anyone from Hindhead knows only a twit would ride down there. Then there's that box. You keep touching it with your hand to make sure it's still there."

"That's..."

"Yes, I know," the boy interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand, reopening his book. "Now, if you please, I was just about to find out that I was right."

John peered down at the book, taking in odd matches of upside down words. "Right about what?"

"John! John Watson! There you are!" The sound of Aunt Maggie's voice drifted from down the lane and John looked away from the boy with the book and toward his approaching aunt. "Dear Lord, just look at the state of you. Your mother would have a fit!"

"I have to go," John started, turning his head back toward the boy only to find him already gone.

His eyes wandered up to the house behind the wall, long and tall, and with more windows than John cared to count. A curtain rustled in one of them and he sent a wave toward it before returning his attention to his aunt.

She said nothing about his clothes; just shook her head and let go of a deep sigh. He found her stitching them the next morning when he woke, and by the evening they looked as good as new.

The next time he saw the boy, he was on his way back from town after fetching a new needle and some cotton for his aunt. She had spent the evening before repairing another tear in his clothes. He passed by that house again, thinking nothing of it until he heard a low growl and a familiar voice from somewhere within the garden.

"Let go, you stupid mutt!"

Curiosity gripping him tight, John pushed himself up onto the wall and peered down to the bottom of the garden. Familiar dark curls battled against what looked like a very determined Jack Russell.

"Hey! Give it back!" the voice called out once more.

Clambering over the wall completely, John set off toward the boy and the dog. He was barely a foot away when the dog spied him and, deciding it was outnumbered, scarpered off into the bushes without its prize.

The boy remained where he was, frozen in place, like the rabbits at the bottom of Aunt Maggie's garden sometimes – whenever they had been spotted sniffing at the cabbage patch. John edged forward and looked down at the ground to see a scruffy brown teddy bear lying on the grass. The left arm was pulled away almost completely, white fluff poking out from the shoulder. With a grunt, he dropped to his haunches and reached out toward the bear.

Immediately, the boy gripped the bear tight and brought it to his chest.

"My dad's a doctor," John said, digging into the satchel his aunt had given him. "My mum says they need him to help win the war. He's the bravest man I know and he can fix anything. When I grow up, I want to be just like him."

He pulled out the needle and thread he had gotten from the shops and squinted in concentration, tongue poking out over his bottom lip. After the third try, he managed to thread the needle and a triumphant smile lit up his face.

"Just call me Doctor Watson," he beamed, holding out his hand to the boy.

With tear stained cheeks and bright eyes tainted red from crying, the slightly arrogant and strange boy from the time before was turned into nothing more than a child with the same hesitancy to give up his teddy as any other seven or eight year old. Still, he slowly pulled the bear away from his chest and released his hold enough for John to take it.

"Don't hurt him," he warmed.

John nodded. "Cross my heart."

The sky was tainted pink from the oncoming sunset by the time the bear's arm was fully attached once more and all the stuffing was back where it belonged. Not as good as how Aunt Maggie would have done it, but it would do.

"There you go," John announced, handing the bear back to the boy before putting the needle and thread away. When he was done, he held out his hand. "John Watson."

The boy looked down at the hand then up to John, some of that familiar arrogance returning now the tears had faded. "I know."

"This is where you tell me your name."

"I know," the boy repeated, pushing himself up from the grass without letting go of his bear. He turned on his heel and began to walk toward the house, calling over his shoulder as he went, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Excuse me?" John questioned, pushing himself up from the grass too.

"My name, it's Sherlock Holmes."

John asked his aunt about the name that evening but she said it wasn't one she knew. She did say that there was a nice gentleman from out of town though, who came to visit every other weekend. He was a Holmes, she said. But before she could go on, Uncle George entered the room with his head hung low, a telegram in his hands. He didn't need to speak; John already knew what he would say.

For the next two weeks, John barely left his room. By the third week, he managed to make it out into the garden, but even the sun couldn't warm him. When the summer began to fade, and the autumn rain started to fall, he stayed where he was, cross-legged on the path outside his aunt's house.

"You'll catch a cold," a voice called out, and John looked up to see the young boy that called himself Sherlock.

John pushed himself up and moved toward him. "What are you doing here?"

"Theodore is sick," he answered.

John frowned, unsure how that answered his question at all. "So?"

"So... you're a doctor. Fix it."

John huffed out and turned away. "Doctors can't fix everything."

"You fixed him before," Sherlock pushed on.

Of course, Theodore the bear. Now it made sense. "Teddy bears don't get sick."

"I know."

When John looked back, Sherlock was standing tall, his bright eyes determined. John said nothing. He wasn't sure what to say.

"Come on," Sherlock ushered, unlatching the gate and holding it open.

Hesitation kept John where he was for a mere moment, then his feet began to move before his mind had caught up and the next thing he knew, Sherlock was gripping his sleeve and leading him away.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"You'll see," was the only reply he got.

A little while later, he broke the silence that had fallen, his clothes now sticking to him, wet and heavy from the rain.

"Don't you have any friends?" he questioned, watching the young boy up ahead.

Sherlock kicked up water from a small puddle, his arms swinging back and forth in wide motions. The rain didn't seem to bother him. "I have Theodore."

"Teddy bears don't count."

Head tilting, Sherlock seemed to think about that for a moment before nodding. "Fine, then you'll be my friend."

Instead of telling the younger boy that he couldn't just decide someone would be his friend, a genuine smile settled on John's lips for the first time in weeks and he moved to catch up and walk beside Sherlock.

"Why are we out when it's pelting down exactly?" he asked, glancing down at the boy beside him.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked right back. "Is there a better time to solve a case?"

"A case?"

Sherlock looked to him with his brow burrowed and John took that to mean he didn't wish to repeat himself. That didn't clear up John's confusion though.

"What exactly do you mean? A case like in a detective story?"

Dark curls rustled as Sherlock shook his head from side to side. "Too predictable, too obvious."

"Then what?"

Sherlock came to a stop but didn't answer. He raised his arm to point forward and for the first time, John took note of their surroundings. They had made it all the way to the church without John even noticing. The graveyard sat in front of them, the heavy rain forcing John to squint in order to see the silhouette that Sherlock was pointing to.

John opened his mouth to speak, to ask Sherlock what he meant, but the young boy was gone, leaving John alone in the rain, staring out at the gravestones and at the lonely figure among them. Taking a deep breath, he shook the thoughts of heading back home from his mind and set off toward the figure.

"You shouldn't be out in such nasty weather," the figure spoke up, his voice lazy and tired.

John paused, considering the man as he turned to face John instead.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," was all John found he could say.

The man raised his flat cap a little, dabbing at the rain on his forehead with a handkerchief. "To tell the truth," he answered, "I would be glad of the company. It gets lonely sometimes."

Shuffling from foot to foot, John cleared his throat and glanced beyond the man and toward the grave instead. It looked old, at least a decade so, if not more, but before he could take in the name, Sherlock was there again, tugging at his sleeve.

"Ask him why he doesn't come and play anymore," Sherlock all but demanded.

John opened his mouth, but the words became jumbled somewhere in his throat. A frown tugged at his lips and his eyes wandered to the man, then back to Sherlock once more. Something clenched in his stomach, uncomfortable and unnerving.

"Who are you?" he asked instead, eyes back on the man.

"Mycroft," the man answered, "my name is Mycroft Holmes."

Was he the man his aunt had mentioned?

"John..." Sherlock called to him, hushed and secretive, as if he didn't want the older Holmes to hear. He moved toward the grave, his fingertips reaching out to trace the carvings in the stone.

John followed, closing the gap and moving past the man also, frown still firmly in place.

"John," Sherlock repeated, and his eyes met John's, wide and wet, fearful.

"He was bed-ridden most his life," Mycroft spoke up, the words washing over John almost unheard. "All he had were his books and his bear."

"Theodore," John whispered.

"How did you know?"

"Just a guess," John answered, his eyes never leaving the gravestone and the name he could see clearly now. He swallowed hard. "Sherlock Holmes."

Silence settled for a breath, only the sound of the rain to be heard. After another moment, it was broken by the jostling of fabric as Mycroft straightened out his clothes.

"It was good to meet you, John," he said, placing a hand on John's shoulder and squeezing it tight, "but I best be going now."

"How did you..." John started, turning to look up at the man. The rest of his words died when he saw the knowing smile on Mycroft's face.

"Your father was a brave man, John. You must never forget that. It's your turn to be brave now. Make him proud."

"I don't understand."

But the man simply looked up to the sky. "There'll be sun tomorrow, I'm sure of it."

"That's not what my Aunt Maggie says. She said the cows are still lying so it's surely set in."

"Trust me there will be sun." Then he returned his eyes to John and raised his cap in brief salute. "And now I bid you farewell. I imagine it should be some time before we meet again."

"But you haven't told me how you know my dad."

"We met briefly, at the crossing of the ways. He knew the way I travelled and asked that I ensure your wellbeing."

"He could have come himself."

But Mycroft shook his head and kneeled before John, meeting his gaze. "And if he had? Would you have let him leave again? The dead are not meant to linger for the good of the living."

John had no answer. He knew the man was right.

Mycroft stood once more, his gaze moving beyond John. "Come now, Sherlock. It's time to go home."

The smaller boy started forward before coming to a stop just short of Mycroft. "But... John."

"There are some, Sherlock, whom we are fated to meet again, in another life. But that life cannot come if you do not leave this one."

And though John could not explain it, he knew the words Mycroft spoke were true. They stayed with him, beyond Surrey, beyond the war, and beyond death; right into the next life where he came across a strange, dark-haired man he was sure he had met before... not just once, but many times.

"Be brave, John." Bright blue eyes looked to him, a mad grin grew. "I have a plan."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!!!


End file.
